When Milo
returned down the hill from pissing behind a rock, Stuttering Zeke was talking
to a stunningly handsome soldier.

Every nerve
in Milo’s skin became alert—tense, tingly, on fire. He went to stand next to
the luscious soldier. He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head, just
vaguely listening to their palaver. But really, he was studying the craggy face
and bowed lips of this reprobate corporal.

Milo knew
Corporal Vargas was a reprobate mainly because he was from Spain. They were all
deviant buggers in Spain. But this deviant bugger’s demeanor was entirely
sensual. His lush lips curled up arrogantly at the corners, and his thick
tousled head of hair was hidden under the ratty cloth turban he’d fashioned.
Some tendrils that escaped at his neck gave him an erotic, almost girlish look.

The lashes
fringing his malachite-green eyes were also girlishly long. Those were the only
feminine features of this devilishly delicious soldier. He was obviously
powerfully muscular under his fringed leggings and the navy shirt with stars on
the collar. The naval supplies issued to Frémont’s California Battalion,
however, hadn’t lasted long. Most battalion men wore a mishmash of clothing,
handmade or stolen, and this fine specimen of manhood was no exception, with
his Digger moccasins. A brace of pistols in his gun belt, the requisite bowie
knife, a sword, and a rifle slung across his back, and Corporal Vargas was
bristling like a porcupine with armament.

“I’m telling
you, Zeke. Is it Zeke?” asked Corporal Vargas. His tone wasn’t Spanish at all.
He’d obviously been born in the States. Milo wondered what conflict ran through
this beautiful soldier’s emotions, to be sympathetic to a rebellion that
promised to take away the entirety of Alta California from Spanish rule. Vargas
was of Spanish extraction, yet he’d obviously never set foot on Spanish soil.

“Stuttering
Zeke Merritt,” Milo clarified, just to draw attention to himself. “Leader of us
Osos.” The men had decided to use the Spanish word for bear as their emblem.
It was suggested by the many bear hunters in their midst, fresh from the blood
and fat of the bruin.

Frémont had
dubbed Zeke lieutenant of their irregular battalion. Milo didn’t think that was
a good choice. Zeke was constantly roostered on some colorless Dutch liquor
called schiedam, and his temper was quite fiery. Not that Milo thought
Frémont should’ve chosen him, either. He was nearly as bitter and roostered as
Zeke. No, someone like the ungainly, rational Semple, or his friend and former
neighbor Grigsby, should have been chosen.

Vargas
considered Milo, as though he hadn’t noticed him before. The pupils of his
dazzling green eyes dilated in appreciation. “Stuttering Zeke,” Vargas repeated
obediently, dazedly, as though mesmerized with Milo. Slowly he returned to his
train of thought, clearing his throat. “Yes. Well. I was just telling, ah,
Stuttering Zeke here that a Lieutenant Gillespie just came from President Polk
with messages for Frémont. And I don’t mean to sound skeptical of my own commander,
but I think Frémont may be fomenting your rebellion.”

“What was
Polk’s message?” Milo asked eagerly.

“That’s the
thing,” said Vargas. “Gillespie went through Mexico to get here, so of course
he destroyed the written dispatches and just verbally told Frémont the gist.
Gillespie seems to be Frémont’s confidential advisor, his adjutant. They’ve
known each other a long time. Anyway, Frémont hasn’t given us any orders yet,
but lots of guys are speculating he has orders from Polk to wage war against
Mexico.”

“Dobry,”
muttered Milo in Polish. Good. Louder, he declared, “We must be allowed
to defend ourselves and our companions-in-arms who were invited to this country
by a promise of land for our families.” Mexico wasn’t responsible for the
deaths of his wife and daughter, but their proclamation that they would
extradite “foreigners” sent Milo over the edge, forcing him to leave his farm
behind and joining up with the other irate Osos. They had as much right to farm
in California as the Spanish “Californios.” The rumor that the Spanish
government in Mexico City wanted to drive foreigners from the settlements had
everyone up in arms—leaving their families and farms to find Frémont and see
what could be done.

For some
reason Milo’s outburst made Corporal Vargas smile, charmingly. He was really
quite boyish but probably at least the same age as Milo’s thirty and five
years. “You are so eloquent.”

Milo snarled,
“I get fired up. When we arrived in California, we were denied even the
privilege of buying or renting the lands of our friends. General Castro is
threatening us with extermination if we don’t depart without our arms, our
beasts of burden. Driven through deserts inhabited by hostile Indians to
certain destruction! With Frémont on our side, our rebellion will surely
prevail.”

Vargas’s face
hardened. “Those are flowery words, Mister…”

“Milo
Stephens.” He rarely told anyone his birth name was Milosz Stefanski. If he was
to fight for Americans’ rights, he had better sound like an American. He had
sailed from Poland right after the November Uprising fifteen years ago, so he
considered himself an American. “They are flowery words because they are
righteous words! Right, Zeke? A prosperous government must originate with its
friendly and happy people—not these spooks in Mexico City who have already
seized the mission’s properties and oppressed the laboring people of
California!”

“Milo. You’re
a very magnetic and fearsome speaker. I can see you have righteous reasons to
dislike the Mexican government.”

Milo tried to
exhale his anger. “I have a farm a hundred miles up the Sacramento River. When
I heard two hundred Spaniards were coming to burn my wheat and drive off my
cattle, I knew I couldn’t just sit there waiting for them, yanking on my bone.”
His fervor for his cause was such that he nearly risked alienating this stolid
solider, who, after all, seemed skeptical of his own commander.

Zeke added,
“Spaniards did send some Digger Indians to burn down my house.”

Corporal
Vargas said, “I sympathize with you. I really do. I’m just worried that
Frémont, with the goading of all you hotheads, will search for any excuse to
justify starting a war.”

“But you’re a
soldier,” Milo said, as gently as he could muster. “Don’t you want a
war? What else do you do all day but tramp around from place to place, shooting
elk and cougars?”

Vargas
insisted, “Don’t you see? Frémont can’t tear around like a renegade, starting
premature wars, acting on his own prejudices. He’s been angry with Castro since
we were driven out of Monterey, and I fear he’ll use any slight justification
to begin aggression. He’s not supposed to do anything without the sanction of
the United States.”

Milo
chuckled. Reynaldo Vargas was very handsome when self-righteously riled. He was
probably just as handsome in other attitudes, as well. “And what’s wrong with
that? We all know Polk will declare war sooner or later. Frémont is only being
very farsighted. Listen. I’m going to bathe in these cool waters. I’m not a
funky roughneck like the rest of these dogs. Vargas, your soldiers are more
rough-looking than us frontier Osos.”

With a
knowing wink, Milo shouldered his rifle and started off toward the Sacramento
River. That had been his goal ten minutes ago, anyway, and he had soap in the
possible bag slung over his shoulder. Let these rowdy loafers run around
smelling like a three-day-old dead skunk. Although as a recent mountain man
himself, he normally would be wearing an animal on his head like some of these
men. He’d just had to stop trapping and start farming because the beaver
appeared to be all trapped out.

He could feel
Vargas’s eyes on his ass as he strode to the river. Dobry. Milo knew
from past experience that Vargas would take his bait. He knew he had a
curvaceous ass that looked tempting between the fringed leggings tied about his
hips. Women were so scarce in California, men had practically started an
uprising a few weeks ago when a thieving prostitute had been hung near Sutter’s
Fort. This scarcity meant that most men put aside their normal mores from the
Old States in order to enthusiastically bugger any fellow who caught their
fancy. And Corporal Vargas had caught Milo’s fancy.

Milosz
Stefanski could care less about the prostitute who had been given the necktie
party. He’d been happily bumfucking only men since his wife and daughter had
died at the hands of Indians on that godforsaken Oregon Trail in forty-one. He
didn’t want to—couldn’t—open himself up to the tender emotions even looking at
another woman brought surging up inside him. Women were frail creatures and
susceptible to every ailment that came down the pike. Who wanted to risk
associating with them?

Yet he still
had the drive, the fired-up lust of the vigorous pioneer. Since there were so
few women about to torture him anyway, Milo had easily fallen into a habit of
seducing any attractive buck he crossed paths with. It had seemed foreign and
strange at first, but it had become such a compulsive habit it was now like a
drug that one had to return to again and again to feel pleasure.

In fact, Milo
had turned into something of a libertine. His prick was already halfway erect
when he kicked aside his moccasins and stepped out of his leggings and
pantaloons. He peeled off his filthy shirt. He’d paid Digger women to wash some
clothes for him and was waiting for their return. He was accustomed to plunging
into the melted snow waters of the Sacramento, which he did now. The water
shocked his blood and numbed his skin, but he plowed on through the glittering
sheet of water. Coming to a deep pool, he treaded water, as the river bottom
was far below his feet. He dipped his head backward into the frigid water,
instantly numbing it. But when he emerged into the bright sunlight, clarity and
peace began to spread through him.

Milo floated
on his back for awhile, feeling lighter than air. He deserved to rest and bathe
if he was going to spend the next several months engaged in warfare. There was
plenty of time for flea-riddled bedclothes, trying to sleep next to snoring,
belching soldiers. For now, Milo wanted to float in the pure, clean waters.

His cock
twitched as his mind drifted back to the virile soldier, Reynaldo Vargas. Milo
knew that the curly-haired buck would succumb easily under his prodding. He
knew it wouldn’t take long to taunt and tease that potent bugger to a healthy
climax. Since surrendering to this Greek love type of life, Milo had heartily
accepted his own domineering nature. He liked subduing other men, watching as
their faces turned from innocent protestation to debauched joy. While Milo’s
method of coaxing was usually quite brutal, it was always a pleasure to watch
the men cave as bliss washed over them. By the time Milo cut them loose, they
were usually a bowl of pudding in his hands.

His prick was
throbbing against his hip bone when a large splash sounded off the shore. He’d
been on alert for weeks now since hearing about Castro’s proclamation, so he
snapped to attention, eyes wide, treading water. His heart near about stopped
when he realized his pistols were on the beach. But shortly, in a shower of
diamond droplets, the soldier’s head emerged through the water’s surface, and
Milo exhaled violently with relief.

“What in
hell, Vargas? I thought you were a band of greasers.”

Vargas bobbed
just five feet from Milo. The reflection off the water’s surface played against
his sculpted, resolute chin. “Sorry about that. You’ll get your greasers soon
enough, I fear. You have a farm upriver, you said. Did you take an oath and
convert to Mexican citizenship to be allowed to purchase the land?”

“That I did,
several years ago. It made me no difference at the time as long as I was
allowed to own land. Now the rumor is Mexico is disallowing conversion and will
expel all pioneers once the spring thaw clears the passes in the mountains.”

A shadow
passed over Vargas’s eyes. “That’s what I heard, too. I can’t say as I blame
you for being a rabble-rouser. I’m just saying I doubt the veracity of
Gillespie’s message to Frémont. I think the Pathfinder is more of an explorer
than a soldier, and he’s going to interpret any message as an invitation to
claim more land under his own glorious name. That’s all. One can’t just tear
around starting a war with an entire country without direct orders.”

Milo
chuckled. “That’s Manifest Destiny for you.”

Vargas
smiled, a low smolder that had Milo’s penis lengthening even under the icy
water. Perhaps this expedition won’t be so painful and unpleasant after all.
Vargas swept his arms over the water’s surface and kicked away toward an
overhanging rocky ledge where the water was so deep and cold it was turquoise.
Milo stroked toward shore and grabbed the bar of soap, glad he always carried a
length of reata rope in his possible bag as well. One never knew when one might
need reata.

Swimming out
to where Vargas frolicked in the shadows of the overhang, Milo tossed his items
on a little beach, stood where the water only reached his knees, and soaped up
his hair. He wanted to gauge Vargas’s reaction to his thick, long cock waggling
in midair as he pretended to squeeze his eyes shut against the foamy soap. He
was gratified that Vargas didn’t bother averting his gaze. Indeed, the
soldier’s jaw even went slack, and Milo could swear he could see his pupils
dilate with awe. Just his luck this stud would prove to be a cocksucker, when Milo
was the one who liked tasting that choice morsel.

Milo sat on
the sandy river bottom in order to rinse his hair. He was delighted when Vargas
surfaced from the river, water streaming from his beautiful limbs, and
approached him with hand held out. “Soap?” Vargas requested.

From this
angle Milo was face-to-face with Vargas’s impressive tool. It swung at
half-mast too, its enormous mushroom head shiny and satiny in the reflected
sunlight. A sprinkling of silken hair peppered Vargas’s well-developed
pectorals. A fine line of glossy hair arrowed down the center of his taut
abdomen, drawing Milo’s eyes to the delectable pubic mound where the cock
jutted so boldly.

“All right,”
he agreed, blindly reaching for the bar on the bank.

But instead
of handing the bar to Vargas, Milo kneeled before the soldier and gripped one
of his hips. He applied the wet bar of tallow to the delicious layer of fat
covering the pubic bone and rubbed salaciously, hooking his thumb under the
base of the cock. Vargas merely groaned, deep and resonant in his abdomen.
Jamming his fists against the small of his back, he angled his pelvis obscenely
toward Milo’s face, throwing his head back with abandon.

It was nice
to have such instant submission at his fingertips, but sometimes Milo liked
them to put up a battle. No fear, he will soon.He’ll be bucking and
snorting as he struggles against my domination. For a few moments, Milo was
content to massage the savory pubic bone, satisfied with the way his kneading
made the lengthy meat wag before his hungry mouth.

Corporal
Vargas groaned to show his approval as Milo moved the foamy bar to handle the
dangling ball sac. Vargas gyrated his hips as though fucking the air. Milo
approved of the soldier’s lewd abandon, uncaring who might come over the rise
to bathe and watch them so engaged.

Not many men
cared who saw, and in fact, a few battalion privates came crawling over the
embankment. A lusty heat spread through Milo’s limbs as he slid the bar of
tallow along the length of the panting cock. The fellows on the embankment
froze—Milo could tell they held their breaths.

Vargas did,
too, his head tossed back submissively, his glorious throat bared. Milo frigged
the beautiful cock vigorously. He gave it a few healthy, talented jerks with
his fist, squiggling his thumb about the bulbous head. He knew that Vargas was
prepared for him to spear it down his throat. The privates on the hill
apparently thought so, too, as they all quickly unsheathed their tools and
began pumping away in earnest. Vargas even slapped a palm to the back of Milo’s
skull, urging Milo’s face toward his crotch.

Milo tricked
Vargas. Quick as a bolt of lightning, Milo was on his feet behind Vargas,
cinching both of Vargas’s wrists in one fist. “March,” he growled into Vargas’s
ear, kneeing the soldier in the backs of his own knees, buckling his legs.

No doubt
taken by surprise, Vargas obeyed. He stumbled through the shallows to the
shore, where Milo chucked the soap onto his possible bag. He knew from the way
Vargas’s cock remained stiff that he was not dismayed at this turn of events.
Bending in one fluid movement, Milo swiped the reata coil from the sand,
tossing one end over the crook of an overhanging oak branch. Swiftly, with the
experience of a seasoned ruffian and vaquero, Milo knotted the reata around
Vargas’s wrists at the back of his neck, joining both free ends into a rapid
square knot. Vargas could have struggled much more violently, instead only putting
a nominal jerking of the limbs into it. Perhaps Vargas relished what was
coming, too.

“You’re a
good, good soldier,” Milo snarled into Vargas’s ear. “You listen to
instructions and obey.” His own prick throbbed, pulsing in the air just inches
from the saucy, shapely ass. He didn’t care if the dough-heads on the hill
pulling their own johnsons knew that he wanted Vargas as badly as Vargas wanted
him. It always added to Milo’s pleasure if some unknown strangers watched him
perform. He especially liked dominating an officer. The unexpected perversion
added to his arousal. He liked the idea that all eager eyes were on his
throbbing dick. It made him feel even more powerful and potent when unknown
blockheads were admiring him—his physique, his punishments, his partner.

Now he yanked
the reata taut so Vargas nearly dangled on his tiptoes. He was lean all
stretched out like that, his skin tightly pulled across his ribs, his juicy ass
jiggling temptingly. Milo couldn’t stop himself from slapping that ass with his
wet palm, the slap so loud it resounded up along both riverbanks, even over the
sound of the rushing waters. “You’re an alluring morsel,” he said with
appreciation.

“What is it
you want, you shit sack?” Vargas snarled, unconvincingly.

Milo
continued to slowly slap the ass, letting Vargas sway from the gnarled branch.
The dick still stuck out urgently at a right angle from the rigid belly, but
Milo slapped Vargas’s haunches until he raised red handprints. “The same thing
you do,” he said smoothly. Between slaps, he allowed his fingers to tickle the
anal ring and wander down to caress the swaying testicles. Now he fondled the
soldier lightly, alternating with vicious spanks to the reddened rump. How well
Milo knew the tantalizing cycle of pain and pleasure when a talented
practitioner alternated techniques like that.

“You like
cock, don’t you?” Milo knew his Polish accent aroused men, and he played it up,
allowing the syllables to roll off his tongue. “I could tell by the way your
beautiful Spanish eyes ogled my crotch.”

“I did no
such thing!” Vargas protested weakly. “We were having a civilized conversation
about the coming war, that’s all. Let me down.”

“I’ll do no
such thing,” Milo repeated salaciously, now slapping both the saucy globe of
the ass and the balls as well. Vargas flinched when he smacked the testicles,
but his prick remained stiffly engorged, and now Milo quickly bent to swipe the
soap from his possible bag.

Vargas hissed
in air when Milo slapped his balls, but exhaled with sheer pleasure when Milo
squeezed the soapy bar of lard along his dick in his fist. “There,” breathed
Milo, as though talking to a beloved cat. “Is this better?”

Vargas
relaxed into the frigging, letting his head loll back. “God, yes.”

“Do you want
me to stop?” Milo teased.

Vargas’s
eyelids fluttered. “Dios, no. Keep on. Keep petting me.”

Milo
continued to slap the crimson ass while pleasuring the soldier’s member with
the other. He captured the muscular thigh between his own, humping the sinewy
hip with his hard prick. Vargas’s penis was so foamy Milo couldn’t admire the
bulging, purplish cockhead, so he tossed the tallow bar into his other hand,
jamming it between the shapely globes. He grabbed a soapy handful of the
swollen testicles while Vargas hissed and flinched.

Milo snarled,
“You want me to keep petting you?”

“Yes,” said
Vargas, without conviction. “You hurt so good. I don’t know what feels
pleasurable and what hurts.”

“It may
sting,” Milo allowed, swatting the soapy cock some more, “but your cock isn’t
flagging one centimeter, Vargas. You’re a deviant, twisted stud, aren’t you?”
Milo swept his hand up to tweak the nipple that was crying out for attention.

Milo saw the
gleam of a tear being squeezed from the corner of Reynaldo’s eye. “Tu
maldito desgraciado.” You fucking bastard.

Milo smiled.
He knew he was a fucking bastard. His eyes flickered to the sick jackasses on
the embankment, who had already pumped themselves into spending. He enjoyed
watching strangers squirt their ejaculate when he knew it was because they watched
him. Milo knew he was an excellent performer, and he kept his physique
in good form because that was part of the beauty of his sexual performances.
Not only was he not ashamed of being naked, he was proud of his body and sought
every opportunity to display it. Tu maldito desgraciado, indeed.

Milo
positioned himself behind the dangling soldier. He took some compassion and
lowered Vargas’s bound wrists enough so his shuddering shoulders didn’t carry
so much weight. Vargas panted with the strain—the pain intermingled with
pleasure. Milo soaped up the tight anal ring and plunged his cock up to the
hilt.

Vargas
groaned, one enormous shudder wracking his beautiful body.

Milo very
nearly lost it. It was so exquisite to spear this athletic buck up the ass like
this. The surge of lust shot through his prick and balls, and he nearly
teetered over.

But he kept
his grip on Vargas’s lathered dick. He paused in his fucking to gather himself
and milk Vargas’s thick member. Now, although the spent spectators couldn’t hear
him, it was always important to talk dirty to his partners, to assert his
superiority over them. He siphoned their cocks while fucking them because he
liked to see and feel their semen spurting, flowing over his fingers—or down
his throat if he wasn’t in the mood for fucking. But it wouldn’t do to let men
know that it was as important to pleasure them as it was to please himself—if
not more so. So he distracted them from his frigging by the patter of his nasty
talk.

“You like
being fucked like this, reamed in and out from stem to stern, don’t you?
Hanging helplessly, having another man’s fat cock up your ass? Tingles, doesn’t
it? Doesn’t it send a surge of seed into your balls to be fucked like this?
You’re helpless, being taken advantage of. You have no control. You can’t stop
me from spanking your naughty ass. It plumps your succulent dick up to be
fucked like this. Do you feel my prick rubbing against your prostate? That’s
the tender, sweet spot you want me to massage. There.” Milo grunted as he diddled
his cockhead against what he knew was the most tender, sweetest spot in the
soldier’s rectum—the spot that would have him shooting his load so far it would
splash against that rock.

“Pendejo,”
growled the corporal as his anus clenched around Milo’s cock.

All at once,
Milo was ejaculating deep inside the soldier. Vargas’s cock twitched and surged
as the jism burst forth, drenching the rock six feet away. Milo tried to watch
because he enjoyed it so, but the soldier’s rectum was milking his cock,
milking every last drop of seed from him. Milo held his breath and remembered
to keep pumping away at the spurting cock, but he was seeing clear bubbles
dancing before his eyes. No blood was getting to his brain as he emptied
himself into the delicious ass. He gulped in air and the bubbles cleared.

It seemed
many long minutes before the shuddering ceased and Milo could withdraw. Panting
heavily, he untied the soldier, who slowly lowered his arms and felt them
carefully as if for broken bones. Milo walked back into the river and rinsed
the sweat off his limbs, washed his cock. Milo floated on his back awhile,
hoping the corporal would just leave. Milo didn’t wish to become passionate
lovers or even backslapping buddies with any of the men he fucked. He rarely
fucked the same fellow twice—then only if the man was exceptionally beautiful.

And this one
was. So Milo had to beware.

But when he
glided back to shore, the pendejo was still there. He’d dressed back in
his haphazard uniform and was wrapping his glossy locks in the turban. Milo
hoped Vargas wouldn’t speak to him, but he did.

“So are you
continuing on to Vallejo’s fort in Sonoma?”

Milo glared
at the corporal. He squeezed water from his shoulder-length hair and shook it
free of droplets. He snatched his pantaloons from a rock and stepped into them,
cinching them about his hips. “Listen, soldier. I don’t care if I never see you
again. We both got off and had a pleasant time.” He grabbed his fringed
leggings and stepped into those, knotting them about his thighs. “You go off
with Frémont. I’m striking out with the Osos. I’ll never see you again.”

He could hear
the hurt in Vargas’s voice. “I wasn’t asking for a marriage, Stephens.
It was just courteous talk to pass the time.” Shouldering his rifle, he stalked
up the embankment to rejoin the troops.

Milo watched
him go, his pistols in their holsters bouncing impudently against his sinewy
hips. Vargas was right. Why had he been so harsh? They had just shared a
monumental fuck. Why couldn’t Milo be a bit friendlier?

He buckled on
his gun belt with a snap of the wrist. Snatching up his shirt, he shook it free
of sand. Where were those goddamned washing squaws with his clean shirts?

Well, he’d
been correct in what he’d said. The Osos were heading for Sonoma, and he’d
probably never see the corporal again. All for the best.

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